Wolf Song
by Isilien Elenihin
Summary: This is a "Game of Thrones" AU. There were stories about the Doctor of house Tardis, stories that made her shiver. Features the 9th Doctor, Rose Tyler, Jackie Tyler, Mickey Smith, Sarah Jane Smith, and many more!
1. Prologue: Goodbye Stars

A/N: So you're probably like, Izzy, why are you starting all these stories when you have SO MANY WORKS IN PROGRESS. Well, it could be that I like to have a place holder, get all this stuff out so that I remember what I'm doing. It could also be that I'm a horrible tease.

(It's because I'm a horrible tease)

Nothing you recognize belongs to me, as usual. Look for a new chapter after I finish "A Beautiful Disaster," which I plan on doing just as soon as school is over! I saw a post on Tumblr that made me want to read a Game of Thrones AU, but there weren't any. So I'm going to make one. :D Necessity is the mother of invention (and boredom is the father of fanfiction).

* * *

Prologue: Goodbye Stars

Rose Tyler of house Powell stood in the middle of a field, staring at the stars. The night was warm and cloudless. The gentle wind carried the chirping of crickets and the rustle of grain past her. A warm muzzle nudged her side and she reached out a hand to stroke Kaynine, her steel-gray mare. She was getting married in the morning, and she knew that this night could be her last chance to look upon her oldest friends. The stars had been her constant companions since her father's death when she was a child. Peter Tyler was a good, kind, clever man—but he was a dreamer, not a warrior. When Rose was six months old he died, supposedly in a hunting accident. Her mother didn't believe that and neither did she, but there was no way to prove their suspicions and they dared not accuse anyone without proof positive. And so her father was forgotten, one more casualty in the struggle for the Iron Throne. House Powell wasn't rich or influential—but it was old. She could trace her lineage back to the dark times, before the Wall was built and the Seven kingdoms were cut off from the North. It was a potent claim for anyone seeking legitimacy.

If the Doctor of house Tardis hadn't offered his protection she would have been married as a child. Her mother didn't trust the man—she'd heard too many stories—but she was practical and she knew that she couldn't protect her daughter. He could, and whatever Jacqueline Tyler's shortcomings, she loved Rose and she wanted her safe. For nineteen years she was; Rose Tyler was allowed to grow up in house Powell, a half-wild thing more accustomed to the stables than a drawing room. She'd learned when she was forced, to read, to write, but she preferred to ride. She was proficient with a longbow and a sword, although she had no stomach for killing. _If your father had paid attention to his teacher he would be alive now_, her mother told her. _Study hard, Rose. Learn everything you can. Learn how to defend yourself. We don't have an army, but we've got our wits, and that will have to do_. For nineteen years she'd learned, because Rose Tyler was no-one's pawn.

And then the Doctor came to collect their debt, or, rather, his advisors did. He needed a wife and she was of age (older, really, than most of the girls in the various houses when they were married). Jacqueline did not approve of the match but she had little choice; the debt was binding.

There were stories about the Doctor of house Tardis, stories that made her shiver. For starters, no one knew his name. He went by 'the Doctor,' just 'the Doctor.' There were whispers of a gentle, kind (if eccentric) man, a scholar and a healer. There were hushed mentions of a pixie-faced, raven haired girl with laughing eyes and a beautiful, regal wife—but those were stories told around fires far from the man himself. To mention either woman in his presence was to call down rage like few had ever seen—like fire and ice and the storm in the heart of the sun—because then came the war. Rose hadn't been born when the Great War had broken out in the Seven Kingdoms. The Doctor had been young. He'd gone off to fight, as he was required to, and returned to find his wife and daughter slaughtered.

That was when he changed, according to the stories. He'd become hard and angry, cold and aloof. He would brook no dissension, tolerate no questions. He locked himself in his castle and spurned the outside world, refusing to participate in the political and personal intrigue that surrounded the crown. But he needed an heir. With his family dead house Tardis would fall to the strongest contender, and whatever else anyone said about him, he would not visit destruction on his people, not willingly.

That's what Rose thought, anyway. She'd met him twice, once when she was very small, and again when the betrothal documents were signed. He was as tall as she remembered, and rather imposing. He was all hard angles and rough edges, from his shaggy, black hair to the stark lines of his nose and cheekbones and the simple garments he wore—black leather and cloth. He spurned decoration, unlike the few suitors she'd had before. They seemed to believe that showing off their wealth was the way to win her favor. He didn't try, didn't need to. He knew that she was promised to him, although she thought that even if he hadn't he wouldn't have worn the brightly colored, flamboyantly decorated outfits that Adam and Michael had. The Doctor wore a sword at his waist. The sheath, like his clothing, was simple. It was a weapon made for use, not show. He was a soldier—and he looked it.

But when he took her hand he was gentle. When her mother and his advisors left them alone—she could see something in his cold, blue eyes. Something past the pain and the anger that roiled in plain sight, something locked away. He asked her about Kaynine, told her how he knew her father, and when he found out that she loved the stars he showed her his library—a room with a ceiling painted like the night sky. _Not everyone is a hero, Rose_, her mother told her. _Don't go building people up in your head. They'll almost always disappoint you_. Like everyone else, Jacqueline only saw what he wanted her to see. Rose couldn't help but think that there was something more to him.

She'd find out soon enough. She was getting married in the morning. She sighed and turned away, back towards her horse and her home. Time would tell, but whatever happened—Rose Tyler was no-one's pawn.


	2. Chapter 1: Jacquelyn

A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me! It's a bit of a short chapter, but the next one should make up for that. :D Enjoy! Oh, I'm starting the story approximately 1 year before "A Game of Thrones" begins.

* * *

Chapter One: Jacquelyn

Rose woke early the morning of her wedding. If Jacquelyn hadn't believed her daughter was nervous, she did now. Rose hardly ever woke before the third bell after dawn, and never on her own. Unlike Jacquelyn, who was used to keeping early hours from years of running Winterskeep, Rose preferred to stay out late with the stars and sleep in until midmorning. So it was that Jacquelyn was shocked when her daughter was up and pacing when she entered her room to wake her. The suite was spacious and well-appointed—the Doctor had rooms to spare in his castle and hers was clearly designed for visitors of royal status. Brightly colored rugs covered the cold stone floor, and tapestries hung on the walls depicting scenes from the old tales: Brandon the Builder and even her husband's own ancestor, Petyr Powell, first king of Winterfell. Of course, that was back when Winterfell was whole and as large as the other six kingdoms put together. Petyr had three sons, and when he died he divided Winterfell into three pieces: the first, called Winterskeep, went to his oldest son—Artur. The second, called Snowlight, went to his middle son—James, and the third kept the name Winterfell and was given to his youngest—Alan. Unfortunately, Petyr's sons were not half as clever as he was. Alan had only daughters and one of them wed Ethan Stark, whose descendants still ruled in Winterfell. James' line continued for seven generations, until he was caught up in a plot to overthrow the Emperor and was executed and his lands confiscated. It was those lands which had been given to the Doctor's ancestor in gratitude for some favor he did for a future king.

It must have been one hell of a favor, Jacquelyn thought as she waited for Rose to get out of the bath. She didn't approve of this match, not at all, but they were beholden to the Doctor. And what kind of a name was that? It wasn't one, that's what, and she didn't trust anyone who couldn't even tell you his name. "Oh Pete," she sighed. "You should be here to see this." She was pulling out all the stops for this wedding. It was taking place at the Doctor's home, of course, and she was glad. Let him foot the bill, he could afford it, if the bride price he'd given was any indication.

It wasn't a fair trade, not for her little girl, her last tie to her husband and flesh of her flesh. It wasn't a fair trade—but it would keep her safe, at least from the others. The Tylers were a poor house—Artur's lineage declined in fortune as the years passed and the Powell name was all but lost; as it was they possessed barely enough capital to keep afloat, but they were an old family, albeit cousins of the original line. The Petyr Powell had been as close to a King as could be had before the Seven Kingdoms were united, and his blood would make a powerful claim for legitimacy.

Jacqueline wanted no part in the game of thrones that the other families played—the Lannisters and Tullys and Starks and others—but she knew well that one didn't have to be a player to be a casualty. Her own husband taught her that the day he was murdered. His words came to her unbidden, whispered in the silent corners of her mind: _The wolf is at the door_. She shivered, cold suddenly although the long summer was warm around her. Every noble house had their words, like a motto. Most were something rather generic but positive, affirmative, like _Family, Honor, Duty_—but not the northern houses. Petyr Powell's descendants had strange, ominous sayings. The Starks reminded everyone that _Winter is coming_, the Tylers agreed with _The wolf is at the door_, and the Doctor's house (Tardis, whatever that meant) chimed in with _There is no past and no future, only Time_. They were dark words, unsuited for a day that was supposed to be a celebration of joy, but they came to her all the same and danced a merry jig in her mind whilst she waited for her daughter to be done with her bath.

When Rose exited the attached bathing chamber Jacquelyn almost didn't recognize her. She was a willful creature, was Rose Tyler, and she'd been raised half-wild _not_ from a lack of effort on Jacquelyn's part, but from sheer bloody-mindedness on her own. There wasn't a man, woman, or child who could make her do something she didn't want to do (and in truth Jacqueline drew comfort from that fact, because if Rose truly didn't wish to marry the Doctor then she wouldn't). Usually she didn't want to look the part of a lady of a noble house. Her customary raiment consisted of a long tunic with splits almost to the waist (for riding), black or gray leggings, and soft leather boots. Her long, blonde hair was most often pulled back into a tight ponytail and her face was, more often than not, smudged with dirt. When she did wear makeup, she favored the heavy-handed style of the cities of the south, like her mother.

That was not the Rose Tyler who stood nervously in the doorway. Her hair had been washed and brushed and then twisted into a series of complex braids that sent the golden tresses spilling over one shoulder. Strings of deep blue and ice pale beads were woven in among the braids and matched perfectly the colors of her dress. The outer shell was blue like shadows on snow and the inner fabric was a vivid lapis hue. Lacing the color of the outer shell held the pieces together and emphasized her waist. The sleeves hung long and full around her arms and she twisted her fingers in the fabric as she fidgeted under her mother's appraising eye. Her face was almost bare of makeup—just a hint of color at the lips and cheeks and a thin line of black around her eyes. The whole outfit was restrained, almost severely modest, but the blues highlighted the warmth of her skin and eyes, and she fairly shone in the candlelight.

"You'll do," Jacquelyn said after a long moment. "Now come on, girl! Can't be late for the ceremony, not with everyone waiting on you."

* * *

The ceremony itself seemed a bit of a blur. It felt wrong and a little bit like betrayal, leaving her daughter here in this cold hall (never mind that Winterskeep was further north and thus often colder than Snowlight). For all that her husband had been fond of the Doctor, Jacqueline hardly knew him and it was not in her nature to leave those she loved with strangers. _But_—he could protect Rose and Jacqueline knew that she could not.

There was a storm coming. Robert had been a brilliant general but he was an indifferent king and too content to leave running the kingdom to his ministers whilst he cavorted with all manner of women and spent money like water. They called her a gossip and slow and common, but she'd heard the whispers coming out of the south. He was surrounded by Lannisters and they were nothing if not ambitious. He'd had the bad sense to _marry_ one of them and she knew they wouldn't be satisfied until they had the throne. She didn't trust any of them, not as far as she could throw them.

There was a storm coming, and the last time the throne had been in contention she'd lost her husband. She was not about to lose her daughter as well.


	3. Chapter 2: Rose

A/N: As usual, nothing you recognize belongs to me!

* * *

Rose

Rose Tyler of house Powell woke on the morning of her wedding with the strangest feeling. She'd dreamt of Idris, which was odd in itself. When Rose was a child she had an imaginary friend, well, more like an imaginary nanny, she named Idris. She watched over Rose when the little girl played, sang her to sleep at night, and told her stories about the lands beyond Winterskeep. She was more of a surrogate mother than anything. Jacquelyn loved her daughter and tried to provide for her, but she couldn't always be around when Rose needed a mum. The day-to-day business of running Winterskeep kept her busy from first to last light, and often beyond. Rose understood, she really did—but she was lonely. Most of the other children wouldn't play with her; their parents warned them away because she was the daughter of the lady of the castle. Mickey was too old to play with her, and Keisha and Shireen had to watch their little brothers and sisters, so Rose was left on her own most of the time. That was when she played with Idris, and together they explored every nook and cranny of Winterskeep.

The dream was strange, though. She hadn't thought of Idris in years, not since she'd turned twelve years old and the Doctor had given her Kaynine as a nameday present. Oh, the filly had been left anonymously, but it wasn't her mum or anyone else in Winterskeep, so she knew it had to be the Doctor. But after that she'd been preoccupied with training her and learning to ride her, and she'd forgotten all about her childhood friend.

In her dream Idris looked like she always had—tall for a woman, with her long black hair piled haphazardly on her head. Her dress was long and beautiful, but looked like it had been made from rags. She looked like a wild woman, like a child of the forest. Her feet were bare because she said she liked to walk in the dust, and she was singing. She was always singing. She sang more than she spoke—lullabies and ballads and loves songs and old ghost stories to lull Rose to sleep or keep her awake at nights whilst she waited for her mum to say goodnight.

Idris was trying to tell her something, something important. Something that she couldn't quite remember. She was wandering the corridors of Snowlight like she did when she was small and they came to visit the Doctor (they'd only been once, her mum refused to go back). She remembered a vivid blue, like the sky in the east at sunset, and strange metallic pillars that stretched up to a ceiling that reminded her of a forest canopy. There was a soft hum, like the purr of a contented cat, and the golden light and a song that seemed to vibrate every atom of her being.

And then she woke up. The sun had not yet risen but she felt like she'd slept for weeks. She was getting married today.

* * *

The preparations passed in a blur of movement, most of it directed around her. Rose felt like one of the life-size dolls she saw in the dressmaker's shop—a serving girl (a shy little thing named Lynda, Lynda-with-a-y) bathed her and plaited her hair into complex braids. She wove clear and blue beads through the strands until it looked like Rose was wearing a wig of gold and jewels. Lynda helped Rose to dress and smiled and ducked her head when Rose thanked her. Jacquelyn was, of course, less than impressed, but her mother was always like that and Rose had learned not to take offense.

"You'll do," her mum said as she eyed Rose up and down appraisingly. "Now come on, girl! Can't be late for the ceremony, not with everyone waiting on you." There was no advice, no heartfelt words her mum shared with her. They'd gotten that all out beforehand when they'd first arrived at Snowlight. It had been strange, seeing her mum uncertain, but Jacquelyn had called Rose into her room and asked her one final time if she was certain of what she was doing. She gave her mother the same answer that was behind her choice to forgo the veil. It was traditional for the bride to wear a long, sheer cloth over her face, so that the first man to see her on her wedding day was her husband. Rose refused. She was going into this marriage with her eyes wide open, unclouded by any illusions or romantic notions, and she wanted everyone present to understand that. She looked like her mother, like the women of the South with their fair hair and dark eyes—but she was her father's daughter through and through. She understood what this union meant for her and for the Doctor. The Lords of the North liked to keep the three families closely related. They had, after all, come from one house and though they would never merge again blood ties helped to maintain the close relationship between the lands. The Doctor's family, house Tardis, had managed to evade mingling for several generations, but now he needed an heir. The kingdom had been rocked by the battle for the throne, and Robert was not a strong king. The last thing Snowlight needed was unrest from within as well as without. She was young and healthy and his equal, and she could bring him into the fold. Her gran was a Stark, the youngest daughter of the then-Lord. If anyone threatened any of the three houses the others would be honor bound to assist.

Power in the Seven Kingdoms was balanced on the edge of a knife. For now the North and the South were equally matched—the Starks had ties to the Tullys, as Lady Catelyn was the oldest daughter of Lord Tully and the Prentices—Jacquelyn's family, were common born but incredibly wealthy merchants. Should the Lannisters and their allies move against the North the three houses would be well armed and fed. It was the only match possible, really, she and the Doctor. The game of thrones decreed it and as the saying went, there was no middle ground. You won, or you died.

Given a choice between the two, she'd rather win.

* * *

The Tylers held to the old gods, as did the Starks and the rest of the North. Rose wasn't sure which gods the Doctor prayed to, but the handfasting was to take place in front of the weirwood tree in the heart of the godswood. Although it ended there, it began in Snowlight hall with her presentation to her husband-to-be. She couldn't suppress a tiny nervous shiver that ran down her spine. She felt odd, awkward, out of place. The dress was too soft and too pretty for her tastes—she preferred simple clothing made from materials that could take abuse. She felt strangely naked standing in front of so many people, even though she was wearing many more layers than usual. Her armor had been stripped away and replaced with something designed to make her look weak.

Rose raised her chin. She was a Tyler, and there was fire in her—from her mother—but steel as well. The huge double-doors swung open and she walked down the aisle that stretched to the dais at the front of the hall—where her husband-to-be was waiting. He was dressed all in blue, as she was, but it was deeper than hers, almost navy. It set off the pale blue of his eyes, which shone like chips of ice. He wore his hair cropped short, but he allowed a beard to cover his cheeks. It was well-trimmed and highlighted the sharp curve of his cheekbones. He was not handsome, not like Jaime Lannister—but there was something compelling about him. He looked like a Lord. He wore authority like a garment drawn around him, and when she met his eyes she found that she could not look away.

She stopped at the foot of the dais. She was listed as the petitioner, although it grated on her nerves to have to appeal to him when she had just as much rank as he did. She knew the realm's opinion of women—beautiful, delicate creatures—and found it depressingly hilarious. Obviously whoever came up with that idea had never met Jacquelyn Tyler. She ran Winterskeep as well as any man could, and better than some Lords did. She was sharp and brash and never, ever backed down. The words she had memorized were just that, words, but she hoped that the Doctor didn't expect her to abide by the letter of them. Her actual personality would come as quite a shock if he did.

"I, Rose of the house of Powell, stand here before you," she declared, her voice even and pitched to carry. "I am of sound mind and body, daughter of Petyr and Jacquelyn Tyler and heir to the realm of Winterskeep." She raised an eyebrow—a challenge. "Will you consent to take me as your wife?"

The hint of a smile flashed across his face, so fast that she wouldn't have seen it had she not been staring at him. Good, she wasn't sure she could live with a man who lacked a sense of humor. He took a step forward. "I, the Doctor of house Tardis, Lord of Snowlight accept your proposal, Rose Tyler of house Powell. Plainly speaking—I will." He held out his hand. She slid her palm across his and twined their fingers together as she ascended the dais to stand next to him.

* * *

They led the procession to the heart tree in the center of the godswood. Like all of the Northern woods it was a wild place. Jacquelyn had told Rose stories of the godswood where she grew up. It was a garden, she said, a beautiful place with attendants who kept it clean and orderly. But, her gods were the seven, the gods of the southron. The old gods, the gods of the first men and the children of the forest held sway in the North, and their altars were living trees with eyes carved in the bark and leaves like bloody hands. Rose loved it. She'd gone to Winterskeep's godswood to think or to play ever since she was small. Shireen and Keisha wouldn't go with her, they were too afraid. They said that the weirwood watched them, but Rose always felt that it was safer in the tree's wooden gaze. She was never alone in the godswood—the old gods watched over her and Idris was there, just beyond the furthest tree.

The heart tree of the Snowlight godswood was in a clearing at the precise center of the forest. A brook flowed through the clearing and split it in two. There were ponds a bit further downstream and the chirping of frogs and burble of water formed a sort of music, accompanied by the soft brush of the wind through the canopy of leaves above them.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had been chosen to perform the ceremony. It was short—all handfastings were—but the words were as old as the godswood itself, perhaps older. He was their equal, and thus the only one qualified to bind them together. He was also Rose's cousin and the Doctor's friend. He stood with his back to the weirwood. As they were coming together, Rose and the Doctor faced the ancient tree.

"Know you now that the words you speak here, the vows you will take, have power," he began. "You have come here with the intention of binding yourselves to each other. Is this true?"

"It is," Rose and the Doctor answered in unison.

"You have come here of your own free will, without coercion or force?" he continued.

Once again, they answered in unison. "We have."

Eddard held out the cords. There were three—one made of braided blues and another of white and silver—the colors of their respective houses. The third was red, the color of the weirwood leaves and representative of the gods to whom they swore. "These cords symbolize the vows that you will make—_they_ are the ties that bind, in the eyes of the kingdom, and the eyes of the gods. Though you can cut cloth and twine, you cannot cut an oath, not with any sword in the kingdom." He glanced from one to the other. "Do you still wish to continue, being so warned?"

"I do," Rose answered in a firm, clear voice.

"I do," the Doctor acknowledged. His accent was strange—she couldn't quite place it, but amazingly expressive. It was harsh, but warm as he spoke.

Eddard nodded. "Then face each other and hold out your hand."

They obeyed. Rose clasped the Doctor's right hand in her left. He was staring at her with those ice-pale eyes again, and just like before she was drawn in by the intensity they held. He was ice—he was a man of the North, after all—but she thought she saw fire there too. Fire wrapped in ice, what conundrum was that? It was almost as good as fire wrapped in steel.

Eddard turned to face the Doctor. "Will you honor her above all others?" he inquired. "Will you share your joys and sorrows with her, your laughter and your pain, your riches and your debts? Will you make her the head of your household, most beloved and prized? Will you care for her always? Will you bind your life to hers, as long as there is breath in your body, in the sight of the gods and the kingdom?"

"I will," the Doctor answered, but his eyes were on hers.

Lord Stark turned to face Rose. Her heart was beating so loudly that she thought he must hear it, they all must. But then he was speaking and this was _important_ so she pushed the fear down and locked it away. Not today, not now. She could fly to pieces later, in the privacy of her own room, _not_ in front of her family and her soon-to-be household.

"Will you honor him above all others?" Eddard asked Rose. "Will you share your joys and sorrows with him, your laughter and your pain, your riches and your debts? Will you hold him as your Lord, beloved and most prized? Will you support him always? Will you bind your life to his, as long as there is breath in your body, in sight of the gods and the kingdom?"

"I will," she replied, and she thought for a moment that the Doctor's icy eyes softened.

Lord Stark wrapped the cords around them—the blues of house Tardis, then the white and silver of house Powell, and finally the blood red godscord. "You are bound together," he declared. "When you came before the heart tree you were two, but now you are one—one flesh, one spirit. Remember your vows, and find joy in each other."

* * *

The ceremony was, of course, followed by a feast. Rose and the Doctor left the godswood still bound, but as soon as they returned to Snowlight proper Jacquelyn undid the knots and sent the cords off with Lynda. They would be hung above their bed, a reminder of this day and their oaths. The important part of the day was done, and Rose allowed the nerves she'd been ruthlessly suppressing to bubble up again. The focus of the crowd that had come to witness their marriage had turned to the food and entertainment that the Doctor provided. She took the time to observe those around her. A tall, brash, ginger-haired woman sat at the Doctor's right—Donna Noble, his steward. It was unusual for a woman to hold that position, but then his entire household was unusual. Donna had been present when the betrothal documents had been signed, and her first impression of the woman—strong and opinionated, but kind—seemed to be holding. She could pick out a few other familiar faces in the throng: Ser Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, first Knight and head of the castle guard. She'd heard of him before, he was rumored to be an extremely skilled swordsman and a brilliant tactician. Then there was Sarah Jane Smith, one of his bannermen—well, bannerwoman in her case. She was the lady of a powerful house in the South of Snowlight and respected as clever and capable, if a bit overprotective.

The Starks were familiar faces, although it had been some time since Rose had seen them last. She noticed that Jon Snow wasn't in attendance and her heart went out to him. She'd grown up without a father, and he without a mother (and as a bastard in his father's house with a woman whom all knew was rather less than fond of him). She felt for him, although she liked all of her cousins well enough, Jon and Arya were her favorites. Arya Stark was a girl after her own heart. Since her father's death Rose's mum had her instructed in the use of weapons. _You don't need to know how to use a sword to die on one_, Jacquelyn always said, _but if you can, you might just live to see another day_. She was no knight, no Ser, but she could hold her own well enough, and on the field of battle honor too often fled. Her father taught her that the day he died. It was a hard lesson—one she didn't intended to repeat. Arya was like Rose when she was young—half wild. Perhaps that was why Lady Catelyn kept away—she didn't want her youngest daughter to be influenced by a woman who was less than ladylike.

* * *

It was late, very late, and she'd had more wine than perhaps wise when the Doctor finally stood and offered her his hand. "My lady?" he asked, and his eyes shifted to the door.

Rose accepted his hand (and the offer of escape) with a smile and stood. They bid the revelers good night and departed. The walk to their rooms seemed endless and Rose found herself struggling to keep her eyes open. She knew what came next and it wouldn't do for her to fall asleep in the middle of consummating their marriage. Oh, she knew about sex. She'd listened to Keisha and Shireen compare notes—which bloke was gentle, which liked it rough, which had a wife in the town outside Winterskeep's walls, which visited the same whore almost nightly—and she'd overheard Mickey talking with his friends about girls—which one liked a bit of sweet talking, which one liked presents, which one was happy to let a man of the guard in whilst her husband was away—but she was a lady, and her virginity was marked as an asset. Like an asset it had been carefully guarded for this moment.

The Doctor had family once, a wife and a daughter. It was better, she supposed, that at least one of them knew what he was doing. His hand had slipped into hers as they walked without her noticing. She blamed the heat radiating from her face on the wine, when she noticed. Rose couldn't help sizing him up a bit. He was tall, much taller than she was, and lean. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow. He had a swimmer's build, or a runner's, and she would bet he was a good deal faster than he looked, and probably quite a bit stronger. She contemplated how he would feel beneath her hands—if she would be able to trace the planes of his body outlined in sharp relief under his skin.

He stopped in front of a door and pushed. It swung open. The room was large and airy. Thick rugs covered the cold stone floor (it was always cold, even heat of high summer) and tapestries covered the walls, different ones from the suite she'd been occupying. The bed dominated the room. It was large enough for three people, she thought, and covered with plush blankets and what seemed like a hundred pillows. She realized as she turned in the center of the room that the Doctor had remained in the doorway. Rose dropped her eyes and held out her hand to him. He took it, but used it to pull her back closer to him.

"There's a passage that connects our rooms," he told her softly, and nodded to the plain wooden door that was set into the far wall across from the bed. "I'll be there if you need me." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Good night, Rose." And then he was gone.


	4. Chapter 3: Amelia

A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me!

So, thank you all for your patience. I'm working on updating my fics, but real life is seriously bitch slapping me at the moment, so it may take me a while. My fiancee and I have had a really rough year and it's sort of all coming to a head right now.

* * *

Chapter Three: Amelia

It was just dawn when Amelia Pond rose and made her way to the stables. She loved the mornings at Snowlight—the castle was already bustling well before the sun rose. Bakers and cooks and servants began preparing to start the day during the last hours of darkness. They were the legs on which the settlement ran and without them life in the castle would grind to a halt. Amy's position too required early mornings. She was the stablemaster, in charge of the Doctor's stables and mews. She led the hunt when they ventured out into the surrounding forests and supervised ser Alistair's pupils in their riding lessons. Knights were meant to be mounted and while they could fight on the ground they were most affective on horseback. Sometimes she envied her husband. Rory was apprenticed to Harry Sullivan, the Doctor's maester, and as such his day began a good deal later than her own—but most days she enjoyed the quiet time she spent with the horses and her thoughts.

It was especially quiet that morning. Snowlight was full to bursting with visitors from Winterskeep and Winterfell and a few from the southern lands as well (though they were a tiny minority)—but it was the morning after the wedding and the guests were still in their beds. She hadn't been in the godswood to see the handfasting, but she and Rory had been in the great hall when the Doctor returned with his bride. She was young, younger than Amy, and beautiful, if quiet. She left late with the Doctor, but there were whispers in the corners of the hall—talk of wolves and bad luck, of old tales and mutterings of omens. Amy paid them no mind. When she was a child she believed the old tales, the stories of the Others and the first men and the Children of the Forest—but she was a woman grown and fairy tales had no place in her life. She held to what she could see, what she could touch. Her eyes would not betray her like her mind could. In the long dark night every sound was a monster and every shadow an enemy. She was old enough to remember winter, even if it was mild. They'd been in summer for nine years now and the maesters said that the longer the summer was, the longer the winter was that followed it. If that was true they were in for a long, hard winter.

Amy's first stop was the kitchen. Aunt Sharon was a baker and she always had a spare roll or tart fresh out of the oven. She also had the lion's share of the castle gossip and she wasn't shy about sharing. Aunt Sharon always had something to say—even when no one wanted to listen. She was a bit of a busybody and more curious than any cat, but she had taken Amy in when her parents died (no one told her how—gone, they said to seven-year-old Amelia Pond—your parents are gone; but _how_ she wanted to scream and no one would say) and given her a home. Aunt Sharon had helped her convince the old stablemaster to take Amy on as a hand, at first, and then eventually a groom. She was twenty years old when he retired and recommended to the Doctor that she be promoted. That was three years ago, just before she married Rory. She hadn't worn a veil—only noblewomen kept that custom anymore—and apparently not all of them. Lady Rose hadn't worn one the day before and of course Aunt Sharon had something to say about that.

"It's an ill omen, I tell you," she said to Louisa, another baker. "She was born under the wolf-sign on a moonless night. There are whispers from the guests—they call her 'the Bad Wolf.' Why d'you think her father died just after she was born? They say a pack of wolves took him and his horse and tore them both to pieces!"

"Good morning Aunt Sharon," Amy said as she slid onto a stool across from the two other women. "Telling tales again?"

"Mind your mouth girl," Aunt Sharon replied, "I've got a wooden spoon with your name etched on it somewhere around here," but she said it was a smile and slid Amy a sweet roll. It was still warm and the icing hadn't quite set. Amy managed to get a polite 'thank you' out before she polished it off and licked the stickiness from her fingers.

"She can't control when she was born and she was just a babe when her father died," Loiusa objected. "It's just idle talk, Sharon, from men who were far into their cups."

"Time will tell," Aunt Sharon replied. "Don't you have duties, Amelia?"

"Just on my way out," Amy replied. She kissed her aunt on the cheek. "Be well Aunt Sharon, and you too Louisa."

* * *

Her feet carried Amy down the familiar path whilst her mind remained occupied, reminiscing and planning. The winterstown just outside the gates of Snowlight was empty now, but when the snows came and the cold winds blew farmers would come from their freeholdings for the safety it offered. She smiled thinly. The southrons thought they knew winter—they'd never seen thirty-foot drifts or dealt with rains of ice a foot thick. She was lost in thought so deeply that she didn't notice she had company until she was inside the stables. She paused. Someone was speaking—a woman. Her voice was low but the horses were quiet and Amy could hear her plainly. She was speaking but received no reply. Amy frowned. She wasn't fond of people entering her domain without her permission. Two years back one of Alistair's pupils had attempted to injure one of the horses in order to win a bet. She caught him, of course, and he was sent home in disgrace. Amy had no time for someone who injured animals and neither did the Doctor.

She moved towards the voice. "Hello?" she called out. "Who's there?"

A blonde head appeared just outside of a stall three doors down. "Oh, sorry," the woman said. "Am I not allowed to be here? I just thought I'd stop in and see how Kaynine was settling in."

Amy blinked. It was the Lady Rose, as in the Doctor's new wife. She knew what the woman looked like, of course, but without the finery Amy hardly recognized her. "Um, no, my lady, I was just surprised." She frowned. "Aren't you up a bit early? I mean, it is the day after your wedding." Her eyes widened. "Begging your pardon."

Rose smiled at her. It was different than her smiles from the other day—broader, more honest. "No harm done and no offense taken. I figured it'd be best to do a bit of exploring, as I'm to live here." She stroked the neck of the lithe gray mare that was contentedly munching on sweet grass next to her. "I like to know where Kaynine is."

Amy took a moment to study her new lady. Rose Tyler was not what she expected, and she hated misjudging people. The silks and jewels of the previous day were gone, replaced by a serviceable tunic that reached to her knees. Splits extended up to her hips, and opaque black leggings hugged her legs. She wore soft leather boots much like Amy's own and her hair was braided and coiled around her head. Most surprisingly she wore a sword belted at her hip. It looked to be a rapier. The hilt was wrapped in black leather—plain, but good quality, if the sheath was anything to go by. It looked well-used.

Rose cocked her head to the side. "Do I pass inspection then?" she asked.

Amy blinked. "Was I being that obvious, my lady?"

"Just 'Rose,' please," the other woman replied firmly. "But I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Amelia Pond," Amy replied. "Stablemaster. My husband is Rory Pond—he's apprenticed to Maester Harry."

"I've met him, I think," Rose murmured, and frowned. "A little taller than me, brown hair, prominent nose?"

Amy smiled. "That's my husband. Maester Harry thinks he's good enough to go to the college and take his Maester's vows—if we weren't married. Still, he's a good healer."

"I'm sure." Rose stroked the gray mare's neck for a moment. "She's well situated. Thank you."

Amy nodded. "She's a beautiful horse."

Rose smiled a bit sadly. "She's my oldest friend. But you have duties, doubtless. I won't keep you from them any longer."

* * *

Aunt Sharon wasn't the first person Amy heard mention the strange rumors that apparently surrounded Lady Rose, nor was she the last. The stable boys were full of rumors, some of them incredibly crass.

"They say she's a warg," Greg was telling three other lads. He was small and dark and a bit too clever for his own good, but not clever enough to keep from running his mouth. "She turns into a wolf at night and _that's_ why the Doctor won't sleep with her."

Another boy, Alser, laughed. "I don't care if she is a warg, you wouldn't catch me turning down a chance at that."

"Oi!" Amy snapped. "Enough talk. Are you men or crows? We've got fifty extra horses to feed, water, and brush, so get to it!" The other boys at least managed to look abashed, but Alser only looked annoyed. He was seventeen and a bit too sure of himself, in her opinion. "That means you as well, Alser Darkwood. Now _move_ or Ser Alistair will hear about it!" That sent them running. Ser Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart was the sternest man she'd ever met—but also the most fair. He demanded complete obedience and dedication from his recruits but the men he trained _went_ places. He rewarded those who worked hard—but he hated layabouts. Amy knew that she could take on any of the stableboys, even Alser, and most of them knew it as well, but a simple threat worked faster than beating on one of them would and she didn't care _how_ they were motivated, as long as they completed their tasks.

* * *

It was many hours later when Amy finally slid onto the bench next to her husband in the great hall. There were cottages available for those who could afford the rent, and she and Rory definitely could, but Amy had never been very good at domestics and asking Rory to cook was simply dangerous, so they took their meals with the majority of the castle. Of course their apparent failure to conquer normal, every-day tasks didn't stop her husband from wanting a little cottage with a square of dirt and a kitchen and walls anymore than it stopped him from wanting children. They had been married for three years, after all, and almost everyone they knew had at least one, usually three or four, children.

Amy was quite happy with her life at the moment, meaning her life as a wife and not a mother, her life as the Doctor's stablemaster. Sometimes she stood on Snowlight's battlements and looked out over the fields and rolling green hills, the forest to the north and the sparkling lakes in the west and felt the hint of something missing—but it wasn't anything a tiny, helpless little person would fix. She wanted _adventure_. She wanted to travel, to see the Free Cities and the sea of grass, to know more than the hills and shadowed vales that surrounded the castle. She wanted to bathe in the Trident and walk the dusty marketplaces of the south. Rory was no help. Amy loved her husband deeply, but he found her thirst for adventure troubling. He was all too content to remain where they were in the life that he had become accustomed to. On good days she thought of him as steady, stable, and dependable. On bad days she thought of him as rigid and stuck in a rut, as bland and boring. On bad days she wondered why she hadn't left with Mels.

Melody Snow was Amy's best friend (and Rory's too, although he'd never admit it). She was brash and bold and had very little respect for any sort of rule. She was an orphan, like Amy, but she had no Aunt Sharon to take her in. She was no man's daughter. One day she'd just appeared outside the gate. Her feet were bare and bloody from walking and her clothes were torn and dirty. She was six years old. The Doctor had taken her in and found a family that was willing to raise her, but she was too headstrong for her own good. Amy liked that she was daring. Melody had the courage to tell her bossy adopted mum to stuff it and the skill to lay her adopted father out cold when he put his hands on her. No one ordered Melody around—but then no one but Amy and Rory cared to be seen with her. People whispered about her, called her a wildling and a bastard. When she was sixteen years old she stole a horse and vanished in the middle of the night. Amy hadn't seen her since.

Rory munched contentedly beside his wife. She knew that he was watching her and that he was waiting for her to speak. He was chivalrous and kind despite her occasional waspish outbursts and he never asked her about the time she spent on the castle walls, staring at something that only she could see. He was a good husband and a good man, and she loved him.

And that would have to be enough.


End file.
